


the angers will not away

by hangonsilvergirl



Series: A Heart Made Fullmetal [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangonsilvergirl/pseuds/hangonsilvergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What good did it do to give ghosts from the past ammunition in the present?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	the angers will not away

_Panics and furies fly_  
 _Through our unhurried veins,_  
 _Heavenly lights and rains_  
 _Purify heart and eye,_  
 _Past agonies purify_  
 _And lay the sullen dust.  
_ \- from The Fathers, a poem by Edwin Muir

If there’s one thing Ed has noticed about getting older, it’s that some memories are no longer as easy to recall as they used to be. There’ll all still in there somewhere, of course; they’re ready to play like thematic backstory if properly cajoled out of dormancy (because whose mind doesn’t whir at randomly prompted skips through every extreme emotion it ever catalogued, particularly guilt and/or inappropriate sexual arousal?), and the shape of something specific blurs on the edges of his attempts at recollection, not _quite_ coming into focus. (Until it does. Or doesn’t. Or does, _much_ later, once he’s stopped paying attention and/or giving a shit.)

If he’s told the story enough times, the memory has become anecdotal. It’s less about reliving a moment and more about recalling the right string of words to garner the desired response. Laugher. Contentment. Admiration. _Derision_ (towards the appropriate antagonist, naturally). Sometimes, when Ed’s in the middle of a recitation, he’s struck by the weird disconnect between the words coming out of his mouth and the emotional response the _actual_ memory elicits. It’s usually nothing more than a dismissible burst of extreme, raw emotion (usually anger). To him it almost seems melodramatic, at least compared to the reactions of his listeners… though those, honestly, are nothing more than scattered, diluted pieces of that same, core zeal. Still, it feels disingenuous, and in Ed’s warped sense of being, takes away from the accomplishment of having lived through and gotten past whatever it was in the first place. What good did it do to give ghosts from the past ammunition in the present?

More often than not, he forgets it ever happened by the time he’s finished.

(Other times it sticks for inconsistent amounts of time, lurking; rattling rainclouds that seem weighted and unshakeable. He’s the dictionary definition of the word ‘gloom’ on those days, mood both contagious and off-putting, temper flaring on the fringe of everything, punctuated by stomping boots, slammed doors, and harsh words he’ll need to apologise for later. It’s something about himself he can’t seem to fix, and something everyone else miraculously accepts as part-and-parcel of having him in their lives. They certainly don’t _like_ it, but handle it with far more lenience then he often deserves. Ed knows he’s a lucky man. He tells his family so whenever he can. He tries to make up for it by loving them fiercely.)

Sometimes the memories don’t need any prompting at all. Sometimes the most innocuous dreams are perverted by nightmares. Gripping, unrelenting, _crushing_ fear and panic are brought on by too many of Ed’s memories, and take the shape of maniacal laughter in a crisp white suit, of shadows with steely gazes, of melting automail reforming a sentient suit of armor, of a heartbroken chimaera asking to play, and, worst of all, of drowning in waves of blood pouring from his gaping abdomen, and from a creeping, malformed, pitiable being; from the unholy abomination that is, _still_ , his greatest shame. He wakes in a cold sweat, confused, sometimes screaming, gripping the sheets like a life line. It can take anywhere from a few seconds to a good solid minute to draw him back to reality from the ledge of his personal horrors.

They don’t come to pass much, not anymore. There’ll be months, _years_ , of nothing. Then it just… happens. Unpredictable. Unwarranted. Uncontrollable.

Like tonight.

Ed is 27-years-old, and it’s been two years since his last nightmare, or at least since his last one of this calibre. It happens just after 2 a.m. It’s a soon-to-be Thursday morning in mid-February.

The Elrics had had an unremarkable (though typically wonderful) day, coloured by grilled-cheese sandwiches, snowballs, and an unfinished family collaboration on a puzzle ( _supposedly_ featuring a garden of butterflies and blanket flowers) that is still scattered across the kitchen table. Bedtime for the kids had come about with hot chocolate, a raucous tickle fight, and then with a storybook featuring a greedy rabbit with a carrot hoarding problem. At about eight, Ed had fallen asleep on his back, in his clothes, body half on the bed and half off of it, his shirt pulled up to his nipples and a hand on his stomach. Winry had taken his pants off for him while affectionately mumbling “You big _dumbo_ ,” under her breath, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She’d undid his ponytail for him too, knowing he’d roll onto it and wake himself up later, before curling up beside him, body turned toward him, her pajama top riding high on her six-months-pregnant belly. They slept unmoving, both snoring expertly, and with sparse blankets; Winry and Erbium (they referred to their unborn children as metal elements, mostly to their own amusement; Ryal had been Uranium, and Avery had been Barium) were an incredibly effective source of heat despite the season.

The dream starts as a memory, yes, but a good one. Ed smiles in his sleep. He’s dreaming of the day Ryal was born. (When Winry is pregnant he’s found he dreams almost exclusively about babies, about baby smells and smiles, of warm little bodies snuggled into the crook of his shoulder; of dusts of blonde curls and toothless, heart-bursting giggles.) It was in August, almost six years ago now, in blazing heat in the middle of the afternoon. He’d been pacing the kitchen downstairs, manic, while Alphonse sat at the table, drumming his fingers nervously and jumping 10 feet in the air at every noise. They didn’t talk because it made them both hysterical, and especially because the first thing Al had said when he’d arrived was, in a completely incredulous tone (as though he hadn’t been aware for the last nine months that Winry was pregnant), “ _Brother_. You’re going to be a father!?” which had caused Ed to nearly explode on the spot with a palpable combination of elation and panic. _Then_ Winry had let out an depraved-sounding, guttural moan that had carried ominously down the stairs, prompting Ed’s body and brain to agree that he needed to embody the phrase ‘beside oneself’, and so he almost-- _almost_ \--started crying right then and there.

All that worry and uncertainty and lack of knowing what in the name of Truth to do with himself, though, that had evaporated the second Mei had come down the stairs with a broad smile across her face. She’d said, “Edward, you have a son!”, and the world could’ve collapsed around him and it wouldn’t have put so much as a dent in his exhilaration. He’d gone upstairs then, lept them two at a time, to Winry, who looked exhausted but oh, so _happy_. He wasn’t sure if she’d ever looked as beautiful as she did lying there, hair stuck to her face with sweat, smile stretched so wide it threatened to break her face, tears brimming in her big, blue eyes. She was cooing to the little bundle in her arms, and it was wriggling in response. Ed had walked tentatively around the bed to her side, to see them. To see his little boy for the first time.

This is when the dream diverges from memory.

When Ed looks at the bundle in Winry’s arms, it’s not a baby at all, but a dummy full of stolen souls from Central HQ, and it lunges at him from the swaddle blankets, not hesitating to attack. Ed is confused, but immediately takes a fighting stance. He realizes that his arm is metal again, and feels the familiar tingle of alchemy’s rhythm in his blood and being. He suddenly forgets why, but knows that there’s someone he needs to protect, and so claps his hands together before equipping his prosthetic with a sword, in a flash of electric blue. He begins to return the attack in kind, screaming with uncontainable rage, rage his subconscious contributes to with words like _unfair_ , and _sacrifice_ , and _genocide_ , and _apple pie_.

His brother is there, in his armor. More dummies have converged on them from… somewhere? _Everywhere_. They’re rushing out of the recesses of Ed’s own awareness. Alphonse is fighting them. Mustang is there too, blind, throwing out flames with little regard for his surroundings (they blaze close to Ed’s face, and so he’s sweating, but he can’t stop, _won’t_ stop), while Lieutenant Hawkeye lies in a growing pool of her own blood in a transmutation circle on the floor. She’s dying, Mustang’s suicidal; they’re _all_ dying. Ling (or Greed, or both) is there, half human shield, half madcap would-be emperor. So is Lan Fan, whipping around smoke bombs like there’s no tomorrow, and _maybe there’s not_. They’re _all_ fighting for their lives, for everybody’s lives, for human existence as a whole.

Ed can’t hear them because he’s bellowing so loudly he’s deafened himself. He knows they’re screaming too, though. He knows sound is there, even if he can’t hear them, or himself. Crackling, roaring fire, puffs of smoke, Alphonse’s tinks and bangs. Mei is there, and her cat-thing, and there’s more transmutation circles than Ed could ever even hope to count, little blades whizzing past him in all directions. Scar is there, blowing up heads, reciting an Ishvalan prayer. (Ed can’t hear him, but reads _divine justice_ on the man’s lips, and so he _knows_.) Somehow there are more dummies. And more. And _more_. And chimeras, and Lust (with her spears, stabbing and stabbing and _stabbing_ ), and Gluttony (with his fake gate stomach, gorging himself to the world’s oblivion), and Envy (full-sized and monstrous, _crushing_ everyone like _ants_ ). King Bradley is slicing his swords through every good thought that Ed has ever had, while Pride’s shadows seep in, mixing with Hawkeye’s blood, filling all the spaces not, miraculously, occupied by dummies. _Everyone_ is bleeding. _Everyone_ is dying. He’s knows he’s screaming louder still, but the world around him is so quiet it’s weighing on him heavier than his own contrition. Hawkeye becomes his mother, the blood becomes apples--a veritable _sea_ of apples toppling out of invisible wicker baskets--and Hohenheim’s guilt lurks at him from Pride’s shadows. He _begs_ his father, _cries_ for his mother, and nothing but silence comes out of his mouth.

Then he falls.

He lands in the stark, endless white of the Gate, facing Winry on her knees, a loaded gun pointed at his face. “I can’t do it,” she sobs, crying and crying and crying. But then she does.

He screams so loudly he wakes himself up.

“ _Edward_! _ED_!”

He’s on the bedroom floor. Winry is leaning over him, the lines on her face etched in concern and fear, and blood is dripping onto him from her nose. The lamp is on. He’s shaking and shivering, sweating and freezing, and it takes him a few seconds to come back into reality and stop screaming. His right arm is flesh again, and there’s a spectacular bruise beginning to form on it, towards his wrist. He turns his head to the side, and vomits.

Falling back against the wall, Winry starts sobbing. Ed can’t tell if it’s from pain or relief.

“ _Mommy_?” comes a small voice from the doorway.

He’s woken the children.

Still dazed, confused, and disconcerted, Ed wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve before pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking at his wife. Already the nightmare is fading, the bits and pieces blurring into nothing particularly sensible. The same shit as always, probably. “Winry,” he croaks, and finds his throat sore, and his mouth dry. She looks from him to the bedroom doorway, and beckons the kids in.

“It’s okay,” she says (to them all, he thinks), and brings the hem of her shirt up to catch the blood from her nose. Her belly looks so vulnerable in the lamplight, and Ed experiences such a deep pang of guilt, shamefaced and abhoring his weakness. It’s been years. _Years_. This shouldn’t happen anymore. He should be over this. He shouldn’t be causing Winry any more pain, physical or emotional, and the kids are too young to appreciate history, let alone relive it with him. He’s a husband, a father. He’s supposed to protect them.

The kids inch into the room.

Winry inhales deeply. “Ed,” she says quietly. “ _Stop_. I can feel you hating yourself from here.”

“Did I hit you?” he asks, anger burning in his chest.

“You were having a nightmare. A bad one. You were thrashing and...” she trails off, holding his gaze steadily, determinedly, despite her tears and bleeding. “I’m _fine_.”

“This hasn’t happened for years,” he mumbles, but drops the subject at Winry’s responding expression, instead turning his attention to his children. Ryal is holding Avery by the foot of the bed, wary, watching his parents with mild understanding and deep-rooted protectiveness of his baby sister. She’s sucking her thumb and falling asleep standing up. “It’s okay, buddy,” Ed says, scooting forward, holding his arms out. “I’m okay, Mom’s okay.”

“Remember how sometimes you have bad dreams and want to climb into bed with us?” Winry says from the wall. She seems to have staved the flow of blood, and mopped most of it up. Her tone is gentle, and she’s relaxed her shoulders. Ed knows she trying to show her son that she isn’t afraid.

Ryal nods, relaxing slightly but still leery, and begins edging himself and Avery toward Ed’s arms.

“Moms and Dads have them too,” Winry continues. “Dad had a _very_ bad one, and I couldn’t wake him up right away.”

“Was it scary?” Ryal asks with such obvious concern that Ed’s heart swells.

Ed nods. “Yeah, buddy. It was.”

“Would you feel better if me and Avery hugged you?”

Ed smiles. “Yeah. Yeah,I think I would.”

***

Sometime later the kids have been tucked back into bed, and Ed and Winry sit on their own in a heavy silence they’re waiting for the other to break. They’ve cleaned up themselves and the floor, and Ed surveys the bruise on his arm. Winry’d explained that she thought he must’ve been dreaming for some time before she woke up, which she’d done in a sudden jolt, as he’d essentially punched her in the face while flailing in his sleep. Before she’d had time to properly react he’d thrown himself upward, lost his balance and fell, smashing the side table with his arm. Apparently he’d started screaming shortly after lurching forward.

Ed hates that, however contrived the idea is, his future has not been so simple as Happily Ever After. When he was doing research in Creta and Aerugo he’d spent so much of his time imagining what life with Winry would be like afterward, married and raising a family, hoping beyond all hopes that the childhood he built for his children would be a stark contrast to his, and to Winry’s. (That they’d have them, that is.) That, in coming to terms with the loss of his alchemy, and with Alphonse’s return to his original body, coming to terms with the rest was bound to follow suit. His daydreams didn’t include violent episodes where he, however unknowingly, punched his pregnant wife in the face, or woke and terrified his family in the middle of the night. They didn’t include his inability to control his emotions. The bullshit adventures of the Fullmetal Alchemist played no part in his fantasies. There were no red cloaks to whip off dramatically, no mysteries to solve, secrets to covet, or wars to wage. No part to play as someone’s pawn. A different, _normal_ , prospectively amazing life.

It _was_ amazing. 

He just wasn’t always okay.

That, he supposed, was life in a nutshell. No one could, reasonably, expect perfection out of reality. Human beings were too unpredictable for that, changing the ebb and flow of the world with every little choice they made, as well as through all the big ones. He’d chosen to retire from military service, to return to Resembool and settle down, to fall in step with the rural pace, with the quiet. He’d accepted and gotten past many aspects of his years being curtailed by homunculi, goaded by deep-rooted shame. He reasonably balanced necessity in so many of those extreme situations. He couldn’t always forgive himself though, and maybe that was some of the problem. He couldn’t do enough, but he’d done too much; he’d made too many mistakes, had said too many wrong things. He had been a young, cocky, ignorant shitstarter. He’d spent all those years wearing his self-hatred like a badge of honor, deflecting with belief in his intelligence, and with the satisfaction he gained from throwing punches. Now he didn’t always know how to like himself.

Winry reaches forwards and laces her fingers through his.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, you know,” she says, squeezing his hand. “You look like you’re waiting for me to wrench you.”

Ed half-shrugs. “I punched you in the face.”

She rolls her eyes. “You were thrashing around in the middle of something obviously terrible, Ed. You didn’t do it on purpose, and I’m _fine_.” He doesn’t respond, doesn’t meet her eyes. She sighs. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I don’t really know. It’s all a jumble. Something to do with the Promised Day, I think.”

She shudders. “Ugh, that was a terrible day.”

Sometimes Ed forgets that Father succeeded in his Philosopher’s Stone to swallow God, in stripping the souls from all the people in Amestris, and that Winry was one of those people. That her being was pulled from her body and that, however short the amount of time, she was in that horrendous, seemingly hopeless, self-serving limbo. He returns her hand squeeze because he doesn’t really know what else to do. He definitely doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to relive his dream, to analyze it, to pick apart proper memory versus contorted situations and people. He doesn’t _want_ to remember what he was dreaming about at all.

They’re quiet for a few more minutes. She doesn’t ask him to elaborate on the details. She never does. She knows the story as well as he does, just like the rest of the country. “I’ve been thinking,” she says finally, and reaches forward to lift his chin with her other hand, so that their eyes meet. “I. I know we said we didn’t want to name our kids after people. That we wanted them to have their own identities, but…” She bites her lip in concentration and he furrows his eyebrows. “I’ve been thinking that it’s not really about loading them with someone else’s history, good or bad. It’s about honouring people who’ve helped you and I. You know, acknowledging that history, even if it was sort of horrible sometimes.”

“O-okay.” He doesn’t really know where she’s going with this. Trisha, Urey and Sarah are out of the question, it’s something they’ve talked about at length, and he’s just not cruel enough to name a kid Hohenheim (he often forgets that his father had a first name, and not that it matters).

“So if Erbium’s a boy, I thought… what about Maes? And if it’s a girl, then, um. Maybe Nina?”

Ed closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then, in spite of himself, he smiles. He knows he didn’t dream about Hughes or Nina tonight, but he has before. Reminders of the Lieutenant Colonel’s death, and his responsibility for it, still shake Ed to his core and makes his heart ache. _There_ was a man whose death left a hole in a lot of people’s lives. _There_ was a man who deserved as many legacies as could be managed for him. Remembering Nina’s sweet face, and her voice; remembering her joy in playing with him and Alphonse, and her lost childhood… really, it seemed only fair to pass that on to another kid who could continue on for her.

“I’d like that,” he answers finally, in a small, quiet voice.

Winry beams. “We can’t do everything, and we can’t keep regretting,” she says, and leans forward to kiss him soundly on the mouth. Pulling back, she continues, “ _You_ can’t keep regretting. We can’t change what you’ve gone through, Ed, but you have some say in how you cope with it. You and Al… sometimes you treat it like some daring adventure, other times you’d think it was all hell on Earth.”

“It was and it wasn’t.”

“It was and wasn’t an awful lot of things, though. Sad, happy, terrible, wonderful, painful, uplifting… it doesn’t matter. Like I said, it happened, regardless of how or what it was. If you keep pushing it all down and hoping you’ll just forget it, you’re bound to explode.” She let go of his hand, and put both of hers on his face. “I love you, you big idiot. Our babies love you. You’re a good person, a good husband, a good father. We’re not ashamed of you, and you shouldn’t be ashamed of yourself.”

Somehow, this is exactly what he needs to hear, and he feels tension leave his body that he didn’t even know was there. It’s not a permanent fix, obviously, but it’s too often that he feels he doesn’t do enough, and that he’s not enough, so hearing his wife speak so earnestly to him is as shockingly wonderful and invigorating as being doused with cold water on a hot day. “I love you, too,” he says, and kisses her. “And I’m sorry. I am. I know you think I’ve got nothing to be sorry for, but I am, and so. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Starve,” she teases, and rests her forehead against his. “Wear mismatched clothing for the rest of your life. God only knows.”

Ed hopes he never has to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> The story title is from the poem at the beginning, and this story was inspired by it, and by the stanza quoted.


End file.
